Swan Prince
by Meikura
Summary: Moira, descendant of Maleficent, has spent her life in exile. She despises Rosalind, descendant of Aurora and vows to take away her happiness. She curses her rumored fiance from another kingdom, to spend moonless days as a swan but his charm draws her in. Will Moira find someone to trust or will her mother put an end to wishful thinking and turn her to the path of evil forever?
1. Chapter 1

**Hey everyone, while writing one fanfic, I became antsy about this other one I really wanted to pursue. This is a twist on a Disney type story; set to the descendants of the characters in Sleeping Beauty, it's more based around the Swan Princess. Just throwing out an intro and seeing if it's worth pursuing. **

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Once upon a time in a faraway land lived a beautiful princess named Rosalind, pure and loved by her kingdom. The direct descendent of Princess Aurora, she held the same soft locks of blonde hair which cascaded down her back like a waterfall of sunlight.

Rosalind was the shining beacon that kept the streets bright and lifted the spirits of those who toiled in the fields. All awaited for when she might ascend the throne and take the place of her beloved father who was argued to have been the best monarch they'd had in a thousand years. Yes, all seemed well in the kingdom of Delorna, especially with such a beautiful princess to shower them with hope; but this story isn't about the princess.

Let's rewind and begin at the start.

Once upon a time, in the dark forests that surrounded the picturesque kingdom of Delorna, lived the daughter of a powerful witch and the most feared wizard in the land named Moira. Though a beauty in herself to some degree, the mole that lay on the right side of her nose betrayed her blood kin and therefore was the mark of an ugly creature.

The kingdom lived in fear of the dark witches of Delorna and only the bravest souls went into the West forests, which the witches had claimed as their own. It was a place of swamps and dead things rising back up to claim the souls of the living.

Moira was the youngest witch in the clan, a lonely soul that felt herself rot away with each passing day. Truly she was not the darkest creature at heart among the group, but years of isolation and hatred had slowly washed away the smiles she use to have and the hope that one day life might be of some value outside the practice of witchcraft.

After her father had been covered in alcohol and set alight, Moira had mourned his passing but had also hoped that her mother might flee from the wrath of the kingdom; sadly their actions had only made her mother more determined to seek revenge on the kingdom.

There had often been lectures from her kin of the great honour Moira had of bearing the black hair of her great ancestor, Maleficent. They'd scorned her terribly when Moira had concocted a potion that had rid of the green skin she'd had; now she was simply pale, with a green tinge that crept around the edges of her face.

Normalcy now seemed an impossible dream for Moira and so she'd accepted her fate and begrudgingly turned her hatred to the beautiful princess, who was adored by all. A spell to give her warts, a special dye to turn her hair blue but nothing had really ailed the princess.

Until one day, nearing both Rosalind's and Moira's eighteenth birthdays, Moira heard a rumour of the princess's childhood friend, Prince Derek, visiting to attend a ball that was being held in Rosalind's honour and so Moira began to plan...


	2. Chapter 2: Witches, Britches and Bridges

**Thought I might as well get the second chapter up since the first was so short, what do you guys think? Worth pursuing?**

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"And where might you be heading off to so early in the morn?" Hazel, elder witch of the clan asked, as Moira tiptoed down the stairs. "Escaping your mother again?"

"You'll do best to keep your mouth shut Hazel," Moira snapped back in a scolding tone, reaching for her scarf, for the morning still held a chill about it. "You know how my mother despises messengers, especially when they send messages of me. Remember poor Kale?"

Kale had been one of the owls the clan had trained to deliver messages; one unfortunate day, one of the witches had followed Moira to the Kingdom, when she'd been no more than a lass, sent word to Efah, Moira's mother, that Moira had been seen celebrating the young princesses birthday at the festival.

Furious with her daughter, Efah set about cooking in a rage and that night they had Kale soup. Moira remembered she had cried for days after, for that owl had been her favourite and had always affectionately nipped at her clothing when she'd returned home.

"I have no intention of telling your mother dear child," Hazel stated, beginning to rock gently in her chair. "For I am an old woman and I do not need these troubling matters, effecting my health."

Moira snorted as she left the house, trying not to roll her eyes as well. Hazel, despite being the oldest witch, would probably outlive them all.

Turning to look at the house, she sighed. It had been a beautiful little cottage once, with a babbling brook that had run along the side, running up to the old barn that had once housed what Moira believed had been horses, sheep's, cows and an abundance of other farmyard animals. She imagined that the weeds that stuck outside the edges of the house had once been colourful wildflowers that glistened with dew in the morning sunlight.

Now it was a rundown house, where the barn was used to create potions and the babbling brook stood still. No animals ventured near the house and it was a sad fate for a place that Moira imagined had once been filled with beauty.

Moira let slip a small smile; home was not the place she spent her time. Often pretending to go pick herbs, she would sneak off to the secret lake that she had spent many of her days relaxing in the calm company of nature.

Surrounded by rocks, it could only be entered through a secret entrance Moira had grown over with poison ivy, to ward off any curious wanderers.

Running through the forest, as freely as a deer, Moira was thankful for one thing that came with being an outcast. She had no need to worry about the proper attire for a young lady; instead she wore pants like a man, and a white shirt that was torn from catching on branches.

The further she ran, the more the forest began to bloom into life. Swamp gave way to crystal clear rivers. White ashen tree's became large pines, bursting with green life. And the grey floor became a carpet of flowers that felt soft against her bare feet.

If Moira could be born again, she'd wish to be born to a good witch, one who held nature in her palms with loving care. A dark witch had no use of nature unless it had pointy teeth or sharp thorns that might blind the enemy, which was everyone who wasn't a dark witch or wizard.

Sadly, just as much as Princess Rosalind was beloved by all, Moira was equally hated by the kingdom. They'd even gone as far as telling ridiculous prophecies that Moira would try to overthrow the kingdom, only to be slain by Rosalind and the kingdom would once again know peace.

Slain, what a silly word to use. Unlike her great-grandmother, quite a few generations removed, the power of taking a dragons shape was lost to them and the witch blood was thinning slowly. They were not a powerful race anymore; Moira only had the power she had because of her rich blood from two magical bloodlines.

Slowing as she approached the bridge, Moira hid under it. Though it'd been widely spread that Prince Derek would take a different route, Moira was certain they would come this way. Why would they make such a thing publicly known, unless it was a folly to try to keep people like her from discovering his real route.

From his kingdom, the prince could only take a few routes and Moira decided that the royals were smart enough to know that the closer they were to the enemy, the less they might be suspected.

She imagined right about now, a huge carriage with two dozen guards were crossing the bridge which had been publicly announced to the world. While her mother had no interest in the Prince, Moira was extremely focused on making Moira suffer in any way she could.

Prince Derek and Princess Rosalind had been rumoured to be engaged and that had been enough motivation for Moira to take interest in him. Rosalind, with her perfect dimples and bright blue eyes charmed anyone with her smile. Moira wondered what kind of look the princess would wear when she heard the news of her fiancé being kidnapped by a witch.

Moira had considered killing him, that's what her mother would have wanted from her. To let royalty live was not something their kind was prone to. In fact, her mother had killed the queen, when she'd sent a plague among the kingdom. The king had sent soldiers into the forest, but they'd never found Moira's clan.

An eye for an eye, Moira's mother had said. A husband for a wife. Revenge, as cold as the blood that ran through their bloodline. Now Moira was expected to carry the flame that those before her had.

The sound of an approaching carriage made Moira smirk as she peeked over the stone. She knew immediately it had the prince inside. For one thing, there were too many men outside of the carriage instead of inside. They also hid their swords terribly, which held the emblem of the kingdom of Emeera.

"Time for a little spell casting," Moira muttered under her breath. She began a small, simple chant, known to any dark witch. It was the first spell any cast that held a real skill and challenge to a witch child.

_Swampland, marshes, weeds and burrows,_

_Deadly nightshade and weasel hollows,_

_Change these people of which I see,_

_Into something grotesque to thee._

She watched the men outside the carriages bend over in sudden pain. The horses whinnied, as the coachmen pulled tightly on its reins as he held his stomach in the unimaginable discomfort he felt.

Moira had experienced the effect of such a spell once herself as well, and knew that their stomachs bubbled and their skin felt tight on their bones. She watched them turn green and slowly shrink until their bodies morphed into small frogs, leaving their clothes empty on the ground.

While the spell could be a permanent one, Moira preferred to leave them only temporarily as frogs. By nightfall, they would have regained the shapes of men and gone running to the king about the powerful witch that had cursed them. At least Moira hoped they'd call her powerful; their was nothing quite so rude as being called, 'an ugly, wart covered witch,' which she was not. If the wart at the side of her nose did not hold all her power, she would have been inclined to cut if off a long time ago.

Stepping onto the bridge, Moira smiled, waiting for the prince to emerge from the coach. She had the perfect spell waiting for him and she was eager to try it on what she imagined would be an indignantly rude and pompous ass.

However, that was not what she was met with.


	3. Chapter 3: Incantations & Introductions

It was the prince, there was no mistake in that aspect. He wore jewels embedded into his surcoat; most were large, polished pieces of tanzite, the gem of his nation. They set his blue eyes aflame, as if the hottest witch fire blazed in them.

The prince held a more roguish handsomeness then the usual royal pretty boy. His brown hair was slightly longer then what Moira thought was permitted for someone of royal blood, but she was impressed about how little it took away from his masculinity. Surely he was more than twenty winters of age, for she had seen no man of eighteen have such neat facial hair, even though it was simple grizzle around his face with a little extra at the end of his chin.

_Nevertheless,_ Moira thought with disgust, looking him up and down once more. _He is of royal blood and they are all pretentious beings with little more to occupy their minds then how the weather fares._

Moira felt herself blush as Prince Derek studied her as well. He seemed unperturbed by the fact that his guards had just been turned to frogs; this fact greatly annoyed Moira. Perhaps he did not see it happen, but the scattered clothes would surely see some reaction from him.

Jumping over the stone wall so there was nothing standing between them except for the five metres of undisturbed dirt, Moira decided that introductions were a necessary step in trying to strike fear into the calm prince's demeanour.

Curtseying in a way that would make any noblewoman whisper with disgust at her poor etiquette, Moira said, "Your highness, tis a great honour to have your coach pass through our lands. We witches get so little company, especially those of noble blood."

"A shame really," the prince replied and Moira was taken aback by the smile that crept from the corners of his mouth. "Truly, if I'd known the witches of Delorna were so beautiful, I might have taken this road more often."

Moira felt her eyebrow twitch; she'd not anticipated the prince to talk back to her. She had expected a cowering little weasel, who would bow at her knee's and beg for mercy while she cackled, as all witches apparently do.

Yet here Derek stood, unafraid, disrespectful and even mocking her. Her, a witch from one of the darkest bloodlines. No human had ever dare stood up to her; usually they accepted their fate and grovelled all the same.

Moira's anger died as she let slip a smile; this would be a fun. She'd never had anyone talk back before, beg perhaps but never engage in a conversation. Speaking to the witches was hardly the same thing. They spoke of spell casting and what evil deeds they were to perform next, never had she tried a battle of wits with any. She remained mostly silent at home.

"Your flattery will not save you prince," Moira said innocently, looking to the piles of clothes around them and giving a taunting smile. "I'm afraid I've turned your friends to frogs, a fitting creature really for any who bears royal arms."

The prince laughed and shook his head, "I'm sure they will not remain so. A witch cannot evoke fear if no one is to talk or hear of her deeds."

Cocky bastard, she thought, narrowing her eyes on him.

"How odd that you do not quake in the presence of a witch, most would be on their knee's begging for their lives. Perhaps I should introduce myself, so you know of whom you face. I am Moira, descendant of Maleficent, heir to the witch clan that plagues this land. Greatest foe of Princess Rosalind, your fiancée."

Derek looked thoughtful, mulling over her grand announcement. "Truly that is an impressive list of attributes but how am I to be sure you are the greatest foe of Rosalind? I have never been told that she has ever been ailed by any witch."

Blood on fire, Moira stepped forward and knew her green eyes were flaring with power. How dare such a man get under her skin.

"You're not much of a prince," she spat out, realising how much he'd gotten on her nerves. "I see you've yet to introduce yourself."

"You're right," Derek smiled, stepping forward so there was only an arm's length between the two of them. He bowed slightly, reaching out and grabbing Moira's hand before she had a chance to snatch it back. He kissed it gently and then turned the palm over and kissed it as well, a form of polite introduction in Emeera. "I am Prince Derek, heir to the throne of Emeera. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Moira."

Pulling her hand back, Moira scowled. "Careful prince," she spat out. "You might get warts from kissing a witch."

"Utter nonsense," the prince replied, leaning casually against his coach. "Honestly, as a witch I thought you might know a little better."

_Impertinent little toad,_ Moira thought. She'd never encountered a man who'd tried to charm their way out of being cursed; he was clever, Moira had no doubt of that. He knew how to play the game and though that excited her a little, she had more pressing matters in her mind, such as the time quickly passing by as she engaged him in conversation. It would have been a while more before the coach would've reached the castle but another passing coach or caravan might see them and attempt to save the prince.

Moira was not immortal; a sword or arrow could easily kill her. She might put up a fight but more than four men who knew her presence could easily pierce her with something before she could complete any spell on them.

"I'm sure such sickening charm might work with Rosalind, however I am unmoved by your words," Moira said, standing back. "I'm sure she will be utterly devastated to learn her little prince has gone missing and that he is nowhere to be found."

"Rosalind is a princess, she will hold the grace that anyone of royal blood would. I have my fullest confidence in her. What is that expression everyone uses? Ah yes, good always triumphs over evil."

Moira didn't expect his words to sting but they did regardless. She was just a side to him, of course. Witches were meant to be feared, meant to be the monstrous hags that ate children, which was an outright lie; they weren't the pure souls who bathed in sunlight and cut down evil at its roots. They were evil, so she'd play the part.

"Perhaps," Moira said, trying to regain her composure. "But your princess is not here and you stand alone now."

Lifting her hand, Moira started chanting under her breath. She had never attempted the spell before, no one in her family had. It was one they'd learnt from travelling witches who dealt with more of the love curses.

Moira felt her power surround her and she took satisfaction in watching the prince take an uneasy step back as the waves of black energy surrounded him. She'd made a few adjustments to the spell, a way to try to call the princess out a little faster than she might be inclined to do so.

Now that she'd seen the prince, she understood the appeal of his appearance. Making him slightly inhuman might damage his reputation, a terrible loss to the princess, though Moira knew that was just the pickiness of humans.

The energy began to surround him until he was consumed by it and she could feel it working, changing the prince. Finally she stopped chanting and the energy slowly dissipated and Moira smiled as she saw the prince.

"Look on the bright side of this your highness," she smiled, bending down and tying a rope around his neck. He seemed to dazed to notice as she stroked the length of his neck, shrugging as he let out noise. "At least the spell worked, better off cursed then dead."

Standing, Moira knew of only one place she could take him. "Come Prince Derek, there's a place you can stay while your pretty little princess finds a way to release you. You'll love it there, lots of water, fish, perfect for a swan, though I think I would've liked you better as a toad."


	4. Chapter 4: Secret Sanctuary

I hope everyone had a great Christmas and New Years, I know I did. Sorry for the lack of updates, I will get around to uploading the next chapter of my other fan fiction as well. Lately my thoughts have been on my book and working out some of the kinks I'm having but I hope this chapter pleases you guys.

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Moira watched the night approach as the sun began to set behind the stony walls of her inland lair, where the weeping willows sighed wistfully as a small breeze soared through. The grass was soft and welcoming enough for Moira to lay on, unashamed that she knew the swan that was the prince was watching.

There was a peacefulness of the place that she enjoyed. No animal feared to venture here and the small lake occupied an array of wildlife both above and below the surface. Above the surface was where the prince swam, though he could not venture far with the rope tied to his leg, which had also been tied to a rock.

If Moira's mother ever found such a place, she would surely destroy the tranquillity of it. She'd chant weeds from the ground and ask lightning to sear the poor weeping willows until they were nothing more than charcoal.

A turtle was slowly passing by Moira, a small thing, nothing more than a few months old. She picked it up and gently and carried it to the water, where she released it and watched it take refuge under the water.

Annoyed that the prince still watched her, she turned with her hands on her hips. "I thought you were well-educated in manners. Staring is considered a rude."

Something about him unnerved her, caused a flustering in her blood that she'd never felt before. If her mother saw the state of disarray Moira was in around a simple human, she'd be sneering and lecturing her to no end. Humans and witches were a disagreeable mix; each thought themselves better than the other and that was how it was to remain.

Now dark, Moira watched as the moon slowly made its appearance and she smiled gesturing to it. "Your highness, if you have any complaints I am willing to hear them now."

As the moonlight touched his white feathers, the swan glowed as water consumed his entire body and when it slowly sunk back down, the prince stood in the swans place, the water up to his knee's.

Shaken out of his transformation the prince bent down and untied himself from the rock. Moira expected him to stay in the water, away from her, that was her hope anyway. Perhaps with such a curse upon him, now he'd respect her power and learn to fear her like every other male she had met.

Instead he walked right up to her, so close that Moira was forced up against a tree. Derek placed his arms at both sides of her head and though he didn't look pleased, he didn't look furious. In fact, she thought she saw a glint of humour in his eye.

"S-step back," Moira stuttered and cursed her inability to simply push him away. "Or would you like another curse cast on you?"

"Very clever trick little witch," Derek said in a low tone. "Now tell me how to reverse it."

"You can't," Moira said indignantly. "You get to play the helpless damsel in distress while your lovely Rosalind scrambles helplessly to try to find you."

Deciding that he was to close for comfort, she ducked under his arms and lifted her arms high. "You may as well get use to your surroundings, you may be here a while."

Moira stood at the water's edge and looked down at her reflection. She kicked the water, wishing she'd brushed her hair that morning, for it looked like rats had made a nest in it. Most witches didn't brush their hair, some even chopped it off to shock any human they might pass by.

"The curse is simple your highness," Moira explained, pointing up to the moon. "While the moon is reflected on this lake, you change back into a human, but as soon as it leaves the lake, you change back to a swan. Simple really, oh but to take human form, you must be on the lake while the moons first light hits it otherwise you shall stay a swan."

Looking around, Moira turned to face the prince who was leaning against the tree watching her. His face remained stoic, which only inflamed her temper. Humans were such easy creatures to read, so why was he any different?

"This will be your home for the time being, you can leave if you so choose but you'll not get anywhere far with the few hours as you have as a human. And if I were you, I'd stay here, the woods is hardly a place for royalty to be wondering about."

"Yet you navigate it so well," Derek said flippantly. "Aren't you afraid someone might take advantage of you?"

"Of me? I am the direct descendant of Maleficent, no one with half a brain would dare lay a finger on me. You'd do well to remember that as well. You are a pawn in my game to bring Rosalind and the kingdom to ruin."

"So much hatred for someone so beautiful."

At the mention of her appearance, Moira felt her blood boil. Using her power to push him against the tree with invisible hands she strode up to him and snarled.

"Do not give me your false flattery and lies," she said. "It insults me and demeans you to a level unfit for a future king. I am a witch, I know that we do not have the angelic appearance of royalty but should you wish to keep your head, you'll refrain from mentioning my appearance again."

Rushing to the entrance she turned to the Derek, who had watched her storm away.

"Where are you going?" He asked, though whether he really cared for an answer, Moira didn't know.

Moira didn't answer as she walked past the poison ivy, into the empty forests. She'd never expected one human to be so infuriating; true, thinking of Rosalind made her blood boil but she'd never really communicated with the princess. Rosalind lived in a palace and Moira lived in a swamp, there was certainly a large difference in scenery alone.

The rising of the moon told Moira that many of the witches would be up and about, mixing potions, chanting spells or having the first meal of the day. Witches had a natural aversion to light, though Moira simply thought this was due to the witches habit of spending too much time in the darkness. She'd never had a problem with the daylight and preferred to sleep during the night to escape the chatter of the witches that droned on.

Moira had a sinking feeling that when she returned home, she'd be hearing a lot of droning from the witches, her mother in particular. Though powerful, Moira was isolated because of her strange habits that did not go unnoticed by any witch.

Though she had her secret hide out, that was all that seemed to remain a secret to her family. Some days she cursed their ability to read aura's, especially her great-aunt Petra, who always seemed to know exactly when and how guilty she was.

It was with great weariness that Moira slowly walked back to her home, ready to face whatever was awaiting her.


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